The Best Is Yet To Come: The Courier's Tale
by Clarkbar14
Summary: Jeremiah Cain is a troubled but brilliant courier, with some of the worst luck in the Mojave. After surviving a bullet to the head, demons from his past resurface that bring him into a conflict that will shape the future of New Vegas, and even the Mojave Wasteland itself. Feedback and/or reviews are appreciated.
1. Prologue

The boy was having a nightmare. Any moment now he would wake up, safe and warm in his bedroll. His dog, Roy, would be sleeping at his feet. His parents, safe and unharmed, would be next to him. At least, that's what he told himself. It was made painfully clear that the boy wasn't dreaming with a swift and strong strike from the pommel of a makeshift sword, to the back of his head. White-hot pain shot through his skull and he let out a loud, shrill cry as he fell to the mud, sobbing. He heard his mother yell out to him, but the pain was so intense, he couldn't respond. Through the throbbing waves of pain, the boy managed to look up and see the hellish events unfolding before him. He saw Roy, his faithful companion, growling and snapping at the legionaires that tried to restrain him. In a fit of frustration and rage, one soldier pulled a handgun from his belt and fired three rounds into the dog's skull.

"Damn mongrel." He said, kicking Roy's still twitching carcass.

The boy could do little but scream in anguish at the sight of his four-legged friend lying dead in the mud. A legionaire, the same who had hit him with the sword, struck him again. This time, the soldier's armored boot hit him in squarely in the ribs, expelling all the air from his lungs. As he lay there in the mud, gasping and crying, he caught the sight of his father being tied to a wooden post and whipped mercilessly. His cries of agony, a terrifying din, echoed in the boy's head, despite his attempts to cover his ears. His mother's panicked and frightened cries drew his attention from his father, who was now lying motionless on the ground, to her. She was running, being chased rather, by several legionaires. They laughed sadistically as they grabbed and tore her clothes from her body. One man grabbed her and shoved her over a table, another held her down. His mother screamed as the man behind her, now with his pants around his ankles, forced himself into her. The boy, horrified by what he had seen, buried his head into his arms, but the screams, the terrible noises from the men, still reached the boy's ears.

"Fucking whore." A man said angerly, shoving and pushing his mother into the mud.

She looked up at the boy, her face was bloody and bruised. She made eye contact with him and for a brief moment, he felt the hell around him melt away. Time slowed to a crawl and the boy felt safe again. Though she didn't speak it, the expression on his mother's face said "everything will be okay". And for that short moment, the boy believed it.

The sword came down fast, slicing into his mother's neck, but not cleanly. The blade was dull and hadn't sliced completely through the sinew, flesh, and bone. Her expression changed from warm and nurturing to twisted and horrifying as the legionaire cursed at blade, pulled it from her neck, and swung it down again, this time severing the head from the body. Blood squirted from the jagged neck stump and her torso quivered for a moment.

The boy now collapsed, face down in the mud. He was numb. The boy felt no emotion, as he had nothing left in him, no tears left to shed. In a span of what seemed like minutes, the boy had lost everything he had ever known, ever loved. He didn't care if he lived or died. He didn't fight as the legionaires dragged him through the blood and mud to the camp's center.

"Hail Caesar!" They said, tossing the boy down.

The man they called Caesar approached, clad in similar crimson battle armor the legionaires wore. The other soldiers kneeled before him as he walked by. He casually stroked the sword strapped to his belt.

"So, this is the only one left?" He said, coldly.

"Yes, my Caesar. What would you have us do with the child?"

Caesar looked at the boy, who looked back with fierce and terrible rage. If looks could kill, this Caesar would be dead.

"Let him go."

"Sir?"

"Did I stutter soldier? I said, let the boy go. The wasteland will sort him out, one way or another."

The boy got to his feet and with all of his strength, landed a punch across Caesar's cheek. The soldiers flanking him drew their swords, meaning to stab the boy to death. Caesar motioned for them to sheath their weapons.

Caesar wiped the blood from his now swollen lip. "Take the profligate away."

The boy fought, cursed, and spat as the soldiers grabbed him under the arms and dragged him away. The last thing the boy felt was the sharp pain of the armored gauntlet hitting him in the face. Then the blackness overcame him and for once, he was at peace.


	2. Chapter 1: Ain't That a Kick in the Head

It was so peaceful in the dark, in that blackness that exists only somewhere between unconsciousness and death, with no light, or sound or sense of existence to fear the loss of. It seemed like he had lain there forever, entombed inside this body, his body, before, from nowhere, the humming started. At first, it was only a tenative invader, like the buzz of a distant insect on a quiet summer's day, but slowly taking form, bringing time and dimension with it. It grew closer, drawing him out of the tranquility of nothingness, refusing to be ignored. For what seemed like eons later, the droning formed shapes that somewhere in the depths of his subconscious he knew, he reckognized. His awakening mind grasped at them quizically, that fly now darting around his head, in his ears, too close to swat away. Slowly, his eyes opened.

"You're awake. How about that?"

The sound was gentle, concerned, but with a bit of surprise. He turned his head to see who had spoken, whose voice it was that had brought him out of the void. The answer was sitting in front of the bed, leaning towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He sensed immediately that it was a gesture full of concern but no personal attachment. The expression on the middle-aged face looking back at him evoked the same feeling. He tried to focus his dulled mind on the room around him, separating each shape from the one next to it, allocating each to its correct noun: stretcher, chemistry set, chair, syringe, lamp, savoring the way the images and sounds slotted togehter so perfectly. Nothing too wrong with the brain then. The clinical blandness of the decor, combined with his companion, brought him swiftly to the right conclusion.

"Am I in a hospital?" Shit, he was thirsty. His voice was nothing more than a dry rasp. How long had he been out? You couldn't get this dehydrated overnight. He attempted to ease himself upright in bed, but his mucles were stiff, weak.

"Whoa, whoa. Easy there, easy" The middle-aged, balding man said, helping him to sit up. "You've been out cold a couple of days now."

His vision still had not cleared. The room, his companion, were still blurry. His head felt heavy and a slight pain began to creep from the back of his skull to the front.

"Why don't you relax a second, get your bearings. Let's see what the damage is."

Slowly, things began to come into focus and he surveyed the room around him. It wasn't a hospital, but a bedroom converted to a makeshift infirmiry. Various bits of medical equipment were strewn about, here and there. Despite the boarded up windows, dust, and peeling wallpaper, this room at least, was kept in remarkably well condition.

"How about your name?" The older man said, shifting the focus back to his companion. "Can you tell me your name?"

Oddly, it took a second for him to process the question and think of an answer. "Cain. Jeremiah Cain."

The middle-aged man smiled and sat back in his chair, "Well I can't say that's what I'd of picked for you but if that's your name, that's your name. I'm Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodspings." Mitchell held out a glass of water, which Jeremiah grabbed at and drank greedily. "Pleased to make your aquaintance Jeremiah. Been worried about you. You haven't made a sound or moved an inch since Victor brought you in here." He paused to refill the glass. "Now, I hope you don't mind, but I had to go rootin' around in yer noggin to get all the bits of lead out."

He gingerly ran a hand over his shaved head; feeling the gauze dressing wrapped around it. The flashbacks of his encounter with the suave man and his posse played in his mind like twisted film. That smug grin, the pistol, the blinding flash. Anger swelled within him, like a fire ignited by a small spark. Now was not the time for thoughts of revenge to cloud your reasoning. It's what Big John would've said, the voice of reason, quelling the growing anger. He missed John, the man that had raised him since he was small. Certainly would help to have him here now, a retired ranger at his side. John had taught him so much at such a young age: how to use and maintain a firearm, basic survival in the wasteland, even basic computer terminal hacking. The tools make the man. He would always say, quoting the old addage. John had given him the tools and Jeremiah had always picked things up quickly. He approached life like a game of chess; events in life laid out on the board, every move calculated. How the suave man and his gang, who seemed like nothing but mere thugs, outsmarted him, gnawed at the very core of his being. Perhaps, he was overconfident in his abilities. Or maybe, just maybe, he wasn't as good as he thought himself to be. Recent events were making him doubt his very abilities.

"I take pride in my needle work, but you better tell me if I left anything out of place." Doc Mitchell said, his voice refocusing Cain to the here and now. He handed Jeremiah a RobCo Reflectron. "How'd I do?"

Cain pressed the power switch and loud buzzing eminated from the ancient device. Anxiety began to rise within him, subtle at first, but quickly engulfing his central nervous system, putting his whole body into a state of hyper alertness. How much damage did the bullet do to his head and face? What if he'd become disfigured? Now, Jeremiah never considered himself an overly handsome man, though women seemed to find him at least attractive enough to sleep with, but the thought of being disfigured like the ghouls terrified him, and rightly so. His fears were quickly laid to rest, however, when the device finally powered on revealing his face as if he were staring into a mirror. To his great relief, the same twenty-something face and green eyes he knew peered back at him. He had gone several days without a shave and brown stubble now covered his face, but it wasn't a bad look, really. He'd keep it, maybe even grow it out to a full beard. Next, he carefully removed the dressing from his head, taking care to not touch the incision along the right side of his skull. Jeremiah was no doctor like this Mitchell was, but he'd read his fair share of old world anatomy books, medical journals, and the like. John had taught him basic first-aid as well. In his travels though, a doctor wasn't always readily available and he'd have to do some wasteland "doctoring" of his own. Judging from the wound, the suave man either had terrible aim, or less likely, didn't intend to kill him. Don't start what you can't finish, John would say in that situation. The bullet had entered his skull on the right side, grazing the frontal and parietal bones. Mitchell must've had to remove some of the skull, as there was an obvious, though small, indentation there. The wound itself was clean and intact. The edges were well approximated and there were no signs of infection. The Doc had lived up his claim of good needle work.

"Not bad Doc." Jeremiah said, handing him back the device.

"Got most of it right anyway," Mitchell said with a smirk. "The stuff that mattered. There's no sense in keeping you in bed any longer, let's see if we can get you on your feet."

Doc Mitchell helped him to a standing position, but his legs were wobbly and weak still. Amazing how being bedridden only a few days can be so detrimental. The dizziness, though nearly unbearble at first, passed quickly, and he was able to stand on his own.

"Good. Why don't you walk to other end of the room, by that vigor-tester machine over there." Mitchell motioned to the aged machine against the opposite wall. "Take it slow now, it ain't a race."

Cain followed the doctor, carefully watching his steps. The forty feet he had to walk to the machine seemed like a mile. The doctor, who was easily thirty to forty years his senior, could run circles around him right now. That was another thing John stressed to him as he grew up, maintaining physical fitness. He wasn't exactly physically strong, but made up for it by being quick and agile. It was the other attribute, if one could call it that, that Jeremiah prided himself on, the other two being his intelligence and infectous charisma. Being at peak physical fitness was essential for being an effective and successful courier.

"Lookin' good so far." Mitchell said as Cain stepped to the machine. "Go ahead and give the vigor tester a try, we'll learn right quick if you've got back all your faculties."

Jeremiah placed his hand on the upright handle of the Vit-O-Matic Vigor Tester and the machine sprung to life. It presented him with "attributes" that were rated on a scale of one to ten. His strength, perception, endurance, charisma, intelligence, agility, and luck were all given a numeric value, his intelligence and charisma being the highest, luck and strength being the lowest.

"Seems about right." Jeremiah joked, after all, his luck had to be some of the worst in the Mojave at the moment.

"Well look at that. Maybe them bullets done your brain some good." Mitchell responded. "Good to see them bullets didn't affect your charm none either. We know your vitals are good, but that don't mean the bullet left you nuttier than bighorner droppings."

"Medical doctor and psychiatrist, eh Mitchell?"

The Doc laughed out loud and gesturing to the couch in the living room, said, "What do you say you take a seat on my couch, go through a couple questions. See if yer dogs are still barking. Plus, I'd just like to get to know who I fixed up."

Jeremiah entered the living room, there on the couch were his clothes, neatly folded. On the coffee table were his firearms: the aptly named "Mare's Leg," a forty-four magnum lever-action carbine and his weathered ten-millimeter pistol. Dressing quickly, he took a seat on the couch, which was surprisingly comfortable for being over two-hundred years old. Doc pulled up a chair and sat in front of him.

"Alright, I'm going to say a word. I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind." Mitchell said.

"Word association? Really Doc? I'm not some lunatic who belongs in an asylum. Come on."

Mitchell got a disappointed look to his face, frowning, he said, "You're free to refuse, I suppose. How about these?" He held up a Rorschach ink blot diagram. "Let's see if all yer dogs are still barking."

"Uh, no Doc. Sorry to burst your bubble. I can assure you that my dogs, are in fact, barking." Quite loudly in fact, his head was starting to ache something fierce.

"Fair enough. I do have one last form for you to fill out. A formality really. So I can get a sense of your medical history. Ain't like you got a family history of being shot in the head."

He filled out the form to the best of his ability. Jeremiah had no significant medical history that he knew about. He gave the form back to Doc. "I don't have anything to mark down here Doc."

"A picture of health." Mitchell said. "Well that's all she wrote. I'll let you get your things together and when you're ready, I'll show you out."

Jeremiah inspected his carbine and when he was satisfied it was up to snuff, he loaded the ammunition and chambered a round. He slipped Mare's Leg into the holster across his back. Next, he inspected the pistol. It wasn't in as pristine a condition as the carbine, but it had also seen a lot of action. Though it didn't look pretty, its action was smooth and flawless. Cain was religous about maintaining his firearms, something John had instilled in him early. After loading a magazine and chambering a round in his pistol, Jeremiah twirled the pistol around on his triggerfinger, like the cowboys from the old westerns, and slipped it into his thigh holster. He inspected his rucksack next, making sure all his things were in the right places. Jeremiah didn't take Mitchell for a theif; realistically, if the doctor wanted to, he could kill Jeremiah, and people would be none the wiser. With everything in order, he walked to the entrance of the house, where Mitchell was waiting for him with a strange, but vaguely familar device in hand.

"Here. These are yours. Was all you had on you when you was brought in." Mitchell said, handing Jeremiah the exact number of caps he had in his pockets, fifty, a handful of bobby pins, and a slip of paper; his Mojave Express delivery order. "I hope you don't mind but I gave the note a look. I thought it might help find a next of kin, but it was just something about a platinum chip."

Mitchell held out the device he had in his hand. Jeremiah knew what it was now; he recognized the signature screen, buttons, dials, and logo. A Pip-Boy. "Well if you're heading back out there, you ought to have this. They call it a Pip-Boy. I grew up in one of them vaults they made before the war. We all got one. Ain't much to me now, but you might want such a thing, after what you been through. I know what it's like, having something taken from you."

"I don't know what to say Doc. You've done more for me than I would've expected from anyone."

"A 'thank you' will do just fine." Doc said, grinning.

"Thank you, for, well, everything."

"Don't mention it. It's what I'm here for. You should talk to Sunny Smiles before you leave town. She can help you learn to fend for yourself in the desert, though something tells me you don't need it. She'll likely be at the saloon. I reckon some of the other folks at the saloon might be able to help you out too. And the metal fella, Victor, who pulled you outta your grave. Anyway, if you ever get hurt, you come right back. I'll fix you up. I usually charge for this sorta thing, but this time's on the house. So, try not to get killed anymore."

Jeremiah slipped the Pip-Boy on his wrist. The fit was tight, but comfortable. He tapped the "stats" button and a "scanning" message popped onto the screen. A few moments later, a smiling male figure appeared. The health of each of Jeremiah's limbs as well as his head were displayed on the screen, represented by green bars. It appeared as though the device could continuously assess and diagnose problems anywhere on or in his body, even how much radiation he had been exposed to. Next, tapping the "items" button, the Pip-Boy displayed his entire inventory, even the things he carried in his pack. It had scanned and analyzed all of his belongings, clearly and neatly organizing them on one screen. Finally, he tapped the "data" button and a map formed on the screen. The device had a cartography function as well, updating maps of his location in real time. Here also was an organizer, keeping track of all of his tasks, as well as any notes he picked up along the way. The Pip-Boy 3000 was quite a handy little device.

Jeremiah shook the doctors hand, gave him a silent nod, and exited the house. His eyes took a minute to adjust to the brightness of the morning sun. Slowly, the town of Goodsprings came into focus. Residents of the town went about their business, coming and going without even giving Cain a thought. The town didn't have much, save for a general store, saloon, and natural springs where fresh water continuously flowed. He looked to his Pip-Boy, attempting to bring up a map of the town. However, in his fumbling of the switches, Jeremiah activated the radio function. A cool, suave voice spoke from the tiny speaker.

"You're listening to Radio New Vegas, your little jukebox in the Mojave. I'm Mr. New Vegas and I'm here for you. Got some Dean Martin coming up talking about the greatest feeling in the world: love. Ain't that a kick in the head? It sure is. Dino, it sure is."

Jeremiah felt no love for the man in the checkered suit. No, somewhere in the town, someone knew where the suave man and his posse were headed. He would track this man down and take back what was his, by any means necessary. There's one thing the man in the checkered suit would soon find out. You don't fuck with Jeremiah Cain. 


End file.
